


The Things That are Left

by 1848pianist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Canon, Book: Czas pogardy | The Time of Contempt, Canon Compliant, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Angst, Guilt, Heavy Angst, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Suicide Attempt, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), chosen family, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22933192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: After finding Geralt seriously injured in Brokilon Forest, Jaskier has a dream.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 192





	The Things That are Left

**Author's Note:**

> Set during The Time of Contempt. Mostly book!Geralt with show!Jaskier.
> 
> Check the warnings in the tags - take care of yourself!

_“Are you one of those who had a hand in this?”_

_The dryad leaning against a pine tree had hair the color of silver, visible even in the half-light of the dawn._

_“A most deplorable sight,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Someone who has lost everything. You know, minstrel, it is interesting. Once, I thought it was impossible to lose everything, that something always remains. Always. Even in times of contempt, when naivety is capable of backfiring in the cruelest way, one cannot lose everything. But he… he lost several pints of blood, the ability to walk properly, the partial use of his left hand, his witcher’s sword, the woman he loves, the daughter he gained by a miracle, his faith… Well, I thought, he must have been left with something. But I was wrong. Not even a razor.”_

_Jaskier was silent. The dryad did not move._

_“I asked if you had a hand in this,” she began a moment later. “But I think there was no need. It’s obvious you had a hand in it. It’s obvious you are his friend. And if someone has friends, and he loses everything in spite of that, it’s obvious the friends are to blame. For what they did, or for what they didn’t do."_

_“What could I have done?” he whispered. “What could I have done?”_

_“I don’t know,” answered the dryad._

_“I didn’t tell him everything…”_

_“I know.”_

_“I’m not guilty of anything.”_

_“Yes, you are.”_

_“No! I am not…”_

*

Jaskier wakes in a cold sweat, panting. The other half of the camp bed he’s resting on is empty. His body seems to understand what has happened before his mind catches up; his heart stutters, racing unevenly in his chest.

“Geralt?” he whispers, feeling both terrified and foolish.

He receives no reply.

Jaskier gets to his feet. He feels like running, but he waits until he’s well outside the circle of sleeping dryads, afraid of disturbing them. His growing sense of dread multiplies with every step as he hurries toward the stream near camp.

“Geralt?”

His poet’s imagination is running wild after such a vivid dream, conjuring up the images he least wants to see. Images of Geralt, lifeless, bloody, and broken—No. No, he won’t think of that. He will find the witcher. He’ll force himself to keep walking until he finds him. Alive. He must be.

 _Ye gods, let my imagination just be running away with me_ , he prays to spirits in which he doesn’t believe. _Let him not have come to harm. By his own hand, or any other. Not by my mistake._

There was no way for him to have known, he tells himself. The Geralt he met in Brokilon yesterday was no moodier than he ever was, made no reference to any desire to die. If he acted at all strangely, well, after the injuries he’d sustained, it was no wonder he was in pain. 

Though Jaskier’s human eyes are no match for the darkness, he spots a shadow on the riverbank. A silhouette he would recognize anywhere. He scrambles towards it and stumbles, almost slipping into the stream in his haste.

The witcher is crouched by the water, staring off into the distance. His eyes eerily reflect what light comes from the stars above them. He is utterly motionless, though there are deep lines of pain drawn around his eyes. Jaskier suspects his injured leg must be protesting against the weight he’s putting on it.

In Geralt’s hand is Jaskier’s razor, taken from his kit.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice coming out far less fluid and melodic than usual, “give me that razor.”

The witcher seems not to even know he’s there. If not for his harsh, somewhat rapid breathing, he could be a statue. He has been here, alone, for some time. If Jaskier hadn’t woken up—

Jaskier kneels down and puts his hand over Geralt’s, easing the razor out of his grip. After a moment’s hesitation, he casts it into the water. His hands are shaking uncontrollably.

“Geralt, what are you doing out here?”

He is sure he doesn’t want to hear the answer and equally certain he already knows what it is.

“I—” Geralt shakes his head slowly, still staring out at something Jaskier cannot see. “I couldn’t—”

Jaskier feels cold all over, as though he had been dunked suddenly in the river.

Slowly, Geralt’s eyes focus on him. “How did you…?”

“I had…a dream. A dryad spoke to me. She said you were…She said you’d lost everything. And that I—” Jaskier swallows hard. “It was a warning. I had to do something. I’m your friend. And what kind of friend would I be if I…if I let you…”

Geralt turns his head, finally looking at Jaskier. He is as pale as if he’d drunk one of his elixirs, but his eyes are their usual yellow. Though frightened.

“Go,” he says. “Leave me.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I don’t care. I won’t let you die.”

Geralt sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. He looks back out over the water.

They sit like that in silence long enough for Jaskier’s feet to go numb. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do, and every time he looks at Geralt he feels panic well up in him again. Jaskier has long feared Geralt’s death, but not like this. Never. What else has he missed?

“Come back to camp with me,” he finally says. “You don’t have to talk. Just come with me.”

Geralt turns his head away, his shoulders hunching inwards. Jaskier inches nearer to him, not quite close enough to touch.

“Geralt, listen to me. I’m no prophet. I had that dream for a reason. Neither of us puts much faith in destiny, but you were not meant to die here, like this. For a moment, when I was walking through the woods, I thought I was too late. When I saw you here, alive…I’ve never been more relieved. Or more terrified. That isn’t an exaggeration. Never in my life.” Jaskier needs Geralt to understand this. He can’t fathom how Geralt doesn’t already know, but he will repeat it as many times as he needs to hear it.

Geralt looks back at him.

“Your concern was unnecessary, it seems,” he says bitterly.

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

Geralt smiles grimly. “It turns out I’m afraid of death as I am of life. If I’d done as I intended, I would already have been cold by the time you woke up and found me here. Your dream was a coincidence, nothing more.”

“Coincidence or not, I’m just glad you’re alive. And I’m glad to hear you still fear death, if it keeps you that way. But I’ll keep worrying about you anyway. Someone has to.” Jaskier feels his voice rising in pitch with each word.

“It won’t make any difference.”

“Maybe not. But I can’t help it. You’ve saved my life dozens of times. Now I’m saving yours.”

“Fuck off. I didn’t ask you to. You think this makes us even? Or are you worried about losing material for your ballads? This isn’t a fitting enough end for the White Wolf? I’m sure you’ll think of a way to embellish my death.”

Stunned, and deeply wounded, Jaskier feels like retaliating. He controls the urge.

“You’re trying to bait me, Geralt. I know you. And you can stop it, because I’m not here to yell at you. I’ll go back to camp with you, or I’ll sit here with you in the mud all night, but I’ll not join you in hurling abuse at yourself.”

Geralt glares at him, clenching his jaw before he looks away.

“I know you’ve been through hell, Geralt. I heard about it, and I can see it on you. But what are you doing? What about Yennefer? About Ciri?”

“What about Ciri?”

Jaskier closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I should have told you what I heard. I suppose I was trying to protect you. But…I think you’ve already guessed. Am I right?”

Geralt’s expression confirms it.

“She’s alive,” Jaskier consoles. “In Nilfgaard, yes, but in one piece and healthy, it sounds like. It isn’t hopeless.”

“Isn’t it? How can I protect her? In this state? Barely able to stand or hold a sword?”

“You’ll find a way. And you won’t be alone. As for Ciri—you’ve trained her well. She can take care of herself, when necessary.”

“She’s…she’s still my responsibility. I can’t let her life be taken away from her. As mine was.”

Jaskier looks over at Geralt. “In that case, then you’re my responsibility. I’m bound to protect you, in my own way.”

“You’ve sworn no oath to me. We’re not bound by blood, nor by magic.”

“No. I’m bound to you by choice, which is stronger than either. The Law of Surprise didn’t make Ciri your daughter. It was your choice to be a father to her. You chose each other.”

“But I can’t protect her.”

“Not from everything, no.”

Geralt looks down at the water. With a groan, he shifts out of his crouch, but his injured leg gives out on him. He goes down on his hands and knees in the shallows.

“I’ve fucked everything up. Everything, Jaskier—I’ve been wrong from the start. A failed job, a witcher with scruples and emotions. Worse than useless – misguided. A freak among freaks. Thinking I could remain neutral, that I could do something good in the world. That I was needed. Imagine. I’ve lost Ciri. I’ve lost Yennefer. Stick around long enough and I’ll lose you, too, I’m sure. A witcher’s one job is to kill monsters, and now I’ve gone and lost my swords, never mind my ability to stand or walk! I’ve nothing. No work, no direction, no faith, no ideals. Like all witchers, I was crafted as a tool, but I no longer serve my purpose.

“You should have let me die, Jaskier. You should have.”

He strikes the surface of the water, ripples shattering his reflection into fragments.

For a moment, Jaskier is speechless. Finally, he finds his voice.

“Never. Never, Geralt.”

“Why?”

Jaskier feels anger welling up within him, anger not at Geralt, but at the twisted logic he’s been fed for longer than any man’s natural lifespan. By nearly everyone he’s ever known, for his entire conscious existence.

“If I lost my voice tomorrow, would you slit my throat? Hmm?”

Geralt stares at him, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Would you?”

“Of course not.”

“But I’m a bard, am I not? What is my purpose, then, if not singing?”

Geralt tightens his jaw. “You could take another trade. Do something else. I don’t have that choice.”

“Debatable on several counts. But fine. What if, immediately after being struck dumb, I fell from my horse, broke my spine, knocked my head, and lost my ability to work, even at the simplest of jobs? Would you insist on putting me out of my misery then?”

“No.”

“Yet you insist on doing the same to yourself.” Jaskier’s voice cracks, but he pushes through it. “You say you’re different, inhuman. The laws of decency and kindness don’t apply to you. Yet what if you’d succeeded in making Ciri a witcher? Surely you wouldn’t say she was a monster.”

Geralt closes his eyes and says nothing.

“Is it such a bad thing?” Jaskier continues. “Not to be a perfect witcher, but to be your own person? You want a purpose? Well, I’ll give one to you. Tonight, we go back to camp, and tomorrow we’ll talk about finding Ciri. All right?”

Jaskier gets to his feet. If his legs are stiff from kneeling in the mud, he can’t imagine how Geralt is faring.

He holds out his hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s go back.”

Geralt looks at him. If he doesn’t get up, Jaskier thinks he’ll start crying. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Finally, Geralt puts his hand in his and stands with a grimace. As he moves away from the stream, his knee buckles.

Jaskier catches and steadies him without a thought. To his surprise, Geralt leans into him instead of stepping away. Jaskier staggers under the unexpected weight but quickly regains his footing. 

“Are you all right? Can you walk?”

Geralt’s grip on his doublet is tight, almost desperate. Rather than trying to pull him upright, Jaskier readjusts his hold to prop him up more securely with his shoulder. The witcher is heavy, but not more than Jaskier can bear.

“It’s all right. Hold onto me – I won’t let you fall.”

Strands of hair covering Geralt’s face hide most of his expression, but Jaskier can read the pain he’s in from his tightened jaw and shortened breath.

“I can’t walk back to camp.”

“I’ll help you. We’ll go slowly.”

“No.” Geralt’s voice is cold with frustration. “I can’t put my weight on it at all. It’s not healing, it’s getting worse.”

“Well, no wonder, you’ve been kneeling in a creek for an hour,” Jaskier points out reasonably. “What about that boulder over there? That must be, what, thirty feet?”

Geralt grunts an agreement.

This is hardly the first time Geralt has been wounded, nor the first time he’s had to accept help, but this time it seems to cost him. He glances at Jaskier warily.

“Tell me how to help,” Jaskier says, trying to impose some sense of normality on the situation. “I’m no healer and I don’t have anything for pain, but I’ll do what I can.”

“The dryads will have something. I’ll wait until morning.”

“Here?”

“You should go back. Get what sleep you can.”

“I’ll wait with you.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “I’m not pretending to get you to leave. I won’t move from this damn rock.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.” He sits down next to Geralt. “Besides, I’m not likely to sleep any time soon.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

“Don’t. Please. Enough guilt.”

Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Jaskier weaves his fingers into Geralt’s hair. Geralt leans into his touch, closing his eyes and following the pressure of Jaskier’s hand until his temple rests on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier lets his hand fall, his arm encircling the witcher’s chest.

As they wait for the sunrise, he can feel Geralt’s slow heartbeat under his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually having a really good week personally, so I don't know where this came from. Jaskier's dream just hit me I guess.


End file.
